


one in seven billion

by chocolatechip



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, TW: Suicide, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 15:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16370102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatechip/pseuds/chocolatechip
Summary: Doing simple math, Sherlock concluded that it had been a one in seven billionth chance that he had met John Watson. That meant that what he had was precious. There was no one else like John.And Sherlock had gotten lucky enough to be John’s best friend (not that Sherlock believed in luck).





	one in seven billion

Sherlock often pondered the point of it all. The point of living, or it could be rephrased as ‘the meaning of life’. But no, that is not what Sherlock was pondering, because that’s what normal people (or goldfish, as Mycroft would say) wondered about.

What Sherlock thought about was similar, but different. For example, what were the chances, the probability, of meeting John Watson, of all the billions of people in the world? Why John? Why not someone else? Sherlock did not believe in fate or any deities, but he could not explain  _ why. _

_ Why John? _

Doing simple math, Sherlock concluded that it had been a one in seven billionth chance that he had met John Watson. That meant that what he had was precious. There was no one else like John.

And Sherlock had gotten lucky enough to be John’s best friend (not that Sherlock believed in luck).

Sherlock smiled softly. He hoped John wouldn’t miss him too much.

_ A one in seven billionth chance. _

Sherlock could feel his head growing fuzzy. He saw John rushing towards him. He smiled again. A small, small smile.

His vision was quickly fading to gray.

And with his last breath, Sherlock muttered,

“Goodbye, John.”

 

John hadn’t been the same since Sherlock died. He had become like glass. Thin glass. Fragile. Easily breakable.

Sometimes, John would see something that he knew Sherlock would like, and he would turn to Sherlock, smiling, ready to say “Well, what d’ya think?”

But he wouldn’t see Sherlock, because Sherlock wasn’t there.

Sometimes, John would pour two cups of tea, and he would bring it over to Sherlock’s chair, but Sherlock couldn’t drink it.

Because Sherlock wasn’t there.

Sometimes, John would get a call from Lestrade about a case, and John would put his coat on and see one of Sherlock’s coats. He would pick it up to hand it to Sherlock, but he couldn’t give it to him.

Because Sherlock wasn’t there.

Sherlock wasn’t there.

John wasn’t one to think about harming himself, or worse, committing suicide, but he knew that he could not keep living like this.

He missed Sherlock so much. Nothing seemed to help. Not therapy, not his friends, not distractions. Nothing.

John would have given anything to see Sherlock again.

Anything. 

Which is why he softly smiled when the car collided with him.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is welcome!! check out my quotev: @TEDtaco


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